


Like Pennies and Gasoline

by fencetastic, ourocide



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And sometimes they're horrible, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Probably furry eventually but I mean, Roadhog finds something out and instead of stopping it keeps poking at it, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Things are funny sometimes, Wererat AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-04-18 03:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14203587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencetastic/pseuds/fencetastic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourocide/pseuds/ourocide
Summary: "He couldn't remember the face of the man, but the smell of his breath remains in his memory, even now. His breath smelled like pennies and gasoline. It was almost sweet and intoxicating. It gave him a headache."----------------------Roadhog is hired as a bodyguard and later learns he has other duties his employer didn't mention.





	1. Aggression

The way they meet is a disaster.

Junkrat can’t keep his mouth shut worth for shit and Roadhog hates being told to be quiet and subservient, so Hog starts a bar fight and suddenly they’re partners. 

It’s been a little less than a month since they agreed to work together. Hog wouldn’t admit it out loud but the younger is  _ fun _ in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He is loud, he is alive, and he doesn’t let anyone silence him even when his life depended on it. It’s almost a comfort compared to the unbearable compliance and silence that the Queen had forced on Junkertown. And, though Junkrat won’t say it, he likes having a bodyguard. He likes the feeling that someone is watching his back.

They may grind each others’ gears and sometimes they fight, but overall their partnership has proved beneficial for them both so far.

As the first full moon since Junkrat hired Roadhog draws near, Junkrat is admittedly worried.

Junkrat causing mayhem is common and it had gained him a reputation around Junkertown, so he isn’t worried about that. He isn’t even worried about his  _ other _ self gaining more of a reputation. There are already terrified whispers of something within the vast walls of Junkertown, of some giant mutated animal that stalks the old sewage system and eating unsuspecting people when the moon shines bright at night. It’s been years, but no one had managed to catch said beast or make a connection to him.

What does worry him however is the possibility of him gutting Roadhog. 

The older man had stuck his neck out for him when no one else ever had, took him up on his offer of 50/50 when he had nothing to show for his mysterious treasure other than his word, and he even let Junkrat live in the little shack outside of his barn. He would feel bad if he killed the big guy after everything he’s done for him.

Junkrat decides not to set up in his new little home/workshop that Hog had given him. It’s mostly made of thin wood and he knows from personal experience that he would chew through the place like it was nothing. Even metal could be bitten through with enough time, but metal is a start in the right direction. Instead, on the day of the full moon, he takes Hog out to the middle of the desert, rambling nervously as he goes.

“--bomb shelter! I found it a while ago, but it don’t look like it’s gotten much use before I showed up. Lotta good it did fer ‘em, yeah?” Junkrat giggles, but it’s high pitched and tight with nerves. His hands are shaking. 

“So! Here’s what ya gotta do. Very simple! Very simple instructions. I’m gonna lock meself inside, you lock it from the outside, and you just make sure no one comes in to bother me! Simple, right?” He smiles at Hog, all teeth. “And no matter what, don’t come in. Even if ya hear screaming.” There’s a pause and then he titters.” ...which ya might ‘cause sometimes I like screaming. Helps the creative process, ya know?”

A single bead of sweat slides down Junkrat’s face though it has nothing to do with the sweltering heat of the Outback. He hasn’t told Roadhog what he is or what Hog’s  _ real job _ entailed. Just that he needed time every once in awhile to isolate himself and brainstorm new ideas. Hopefully, Hog would just think Junkrat is just another irradiated loon and not question it. Most people thought that anyway.

Roadhog looks down at his employer, his sweat, the nervous twitching, his too wide, yellowed smile and gives a silent thumbs up. 

Junkrat grins and claps his hands together at Roadhog’s approval.

Junkrat’s sudden decision to take a trip had come as a surprise given it falls on the time of the month when all of Junkertown locked up, everyone inside full of fear and paranoia. While Junkrat said he’d only heard of the beast, Roadhog had seen the results of said tales.

_ Something _ was attacking and eating Junkers. And not just Junkers. 

Holes chewed into wood, into metal. Chunks of flesh and pools of blood left in the streets like some sort of threatening display. And  _ the rats _ . The rats around Junkertown seemed especially aggressive when there were attacks. No one had seen what it was, but some said it was a mutated dingo or ‘roo. But it was smart. And  _ that _ is the frightening part. 

Something big and intelligent was going around causing death and destruction. 

With time, Junkertown learned to lock up, to hide, to distrust on the full moons when the attacks took place. Any animosity between each other was momentarily set aside in favor of hunkering down and just waiting. Roadhog had been setting up his preparations when Junkrat had come up with his weird ‘lock me up!’ request. He agreed. Maybe this is what he did during the monthly lockdown. Besides, a bunker far away from Junkertown is a surprisingly good idea. If the chances of him getting mauled by whatever was stalking Junkertown dwindled thanks to this, he’d take it. Better the beast get some other poor idiot.

 

After walking for hours in the arid land, they come up to a solid metal basement door. It was clearly intended to be used as some kind of bomb shelter, likely during the Omnic Crisis. The thick doors are covered in dirt and rust, making it blend into the red-brown earth around it. That’s probably the reason it had been spared from the notice of any other scavengers looking for scrap metal. Though how Junkrat had come across it is a mystery.

“She’s a beaut, yeah? Found her when I was scavenging and didn’t have the heart ta give ‘er up. Too useful fer my… needs.”

There goes the mystery. He opens one of the doors and dusts his hands off. The inside is pitch black, stairs fading away into the darkness. It smells vaguely of musk, dust, and blood.

There’s something comical about how slowly Roadhog turns to look at Junkrat and, if not for the mask, he’d have seen how his eyes turn to slits. This is absolutely suspicious but he isn’t being paid (at all) to be questioning why his weird, twitchy, little fuck of an employer wants to be locked up in some musty, dark, creepy storm shelter. At least out here there is a slimmer chance of being attacked by the beast.

“Here’s what ya do. Just lock the door, stand here so no one opens it, and don’t open it ‘til ya see the sun! No matter what, ya don’t open this door, even if it sounds like I’m dying.” 

Junkrat’s tone is strangely serious. Hog has never seen him so serious before and that’s what sits wrong with him, even when he suddenly smiles and laughs. 

“Well mate, good night! Don’t let the dingoes bite!”

The sensation of something wrong intensifies when Junkrat removes his arm and leg, placing them on the ground outside the hatch and leaving them for Hog to care for. He hops down into the darkness and then... silence. 

For some reason, Roadhog finds himself doing as instructed. He locks the heavy doors with thick chains and a good and sets up a small camp. He even keeps Junkrat’s limbs off the sand. 

Once he makes sure everything is firmly locked, that his cot is placed, and the small fire he made is going strong, Roadhog keeps vigil. Even if none of this sits well with him. Even if he has this bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even if he feels the hairs on his arms stand up. He stays put.

* * *

It’s too dark to see down in the bunker but light won’t matter soon. 

The walls are made of thick metal but, unlike the door, this part of the bunker had minimal rusting. However, there are dents and gashes in the walls and floors with smears of blood. Most of the shelves, which had been built into the walls, have been chewed to pieces. There used to be supplies and furniture down here but it had all been removed for Junkrat’s personal use when he first found the place.

He sits in the middle of the room on the floor and waits in the darkness and the suffocating smell of the bunker. Junkrat hates waiting but there’s nothing else he can do now.

As the moon peeks up over the horizon, he feels a sharp stabbing pain that makes him gasp. Junkrat’s breath shutters as his bones bend and crack wetly, and he gives his first scream of the night. 

His spine elongates until it pushes out his lower back in an ugly splatter of blood on the ground. It becomes a long tail covered in nothing but skin. His rib cage cracks and widens, his insides growing and shifting in his skin. His fingers elongate and nails turn into claws as his foot snaps and the bones rearrange themselves. There’s a pulling sensation on his face as his skull changes into a snout, teeth growing into fangs and ears pulling up, turning bigger and wider. All the while, there’s huffs and grunts, and guttural screams of pain.

_ God it hurts. _

Junkrat has been like this for as long as he can remember. Admittedly, he doesn’t remember much, but all his memories had this same monthly ritual. And it never got any less painful. It takes everything in him to bite back tears as his body keeps changing, as his muscles grow thicker and fur rapidly pushes out of his skin, putting a fresh coating of blood on the floor.

When the process finally finishes, he doesn’t remember much of anything. Blurs of color and light, little fragments of thought from his human life, but that is about it. There’s little left of Junkrat, replaced with something monstrous. He’s  _ hungry _ and he wants out. 

The large beast claws and gnaws at the walls, screeching inhumanly as it keeps trying to make its way out. It doesn’t take him long to find the stairs and the doors. He uses his body to throw against door but it’s solid and doesn’t give away. He can smell air seeping in from between the paper thin cracks of the old metal frame, fresh and clean unlike the musty scent from inside the bunker. These doors are the only thing separating him from freedom, and tonight he can  _ smell it _ . He can smell food on the other side.

Outside, Roadhog had been doing quite well. It was getting cold with the sun down, but his fire kept him warm, his bedroll kept him comfortable enough, and he’d had dinner already. Being this far away from Junkertown meant being able to see the sunset and the stars in full view. Overall, a peaceful start to the night. Until he hears the screaming. Then it turns into animalistic screeching. 

He feels that sensation of dread again and slowly turns to the doors, locked and sealed up. The door rattles as something bangs against it, the dirt on its surface being knocked off in a cloud of dust, but the chains hold. Something large is trying to come out. He remembers Junkrat’s seriousness. His nervous smiles.  _ It’s the full moon… _

There were two possibilities. He keeps a constant, almost unblinking stare at the door as he turns them over in his head.

Either the monster is in there or Junkrat could mimic really well. There’s a third possibility but it sounds ridiculous and he pushes it to the back of his mind as the door keeps rattling.

This goes on for hours. The banging, the scratching of nails on metal.  _ The screaming _ . Wailing and hissing like some kind of animal trying to get out. It isn’t until an hour or so before sunrise that the sounds quiet down.

With the silence, Roadhog feels more unnerved than he did than when the doors were rattling and the screams were incessant. His body feels tense and strung with adrenaline, heart still going a mile a minute. He’s lived quite some time unlike most of the people in Junkertown. Kids growing up to be irradiated metal heads, the weak dying off, the few that survived too embarrassed to do much of anything. He’s seen shit. He’s  _ done _ shit. But that screaming...

The screaming is going to ensure he stays wide awake for what’s left of the night.

Not even the small fire he made helps stave off the fear in his throat or the cold sweat on his brow. Junkrat is in there. And so is something strong enough to easily ram itself against the metal bunker doors and make the chains strain. It sure as fuck isn’t Junkrat. He’d had difficulty in opening the door even with his full weight and his prosthetics, which are presently with Roadhog. 

He wonders if the beast in Junkertown has prowled for the night. He’d had the misfortune of seeing one of the bodies once.

It had been early on when the attacks first started. Rumor had it that some kind of dingo had gotten into Junkertown with the only known victims being piss drunk old men who probably had passed out alone in back allies. Back then, no one bothered to lock and barricade their doors, no one made sure everyone was secure in their hovels and homes and holes in the wall. 

When they had found him, the man had been staring at nothing. He couldn’t have been any older than Junkrat is now. His face was oddly serene, blank, just a small trickle of blood coming from his mouth.

The rest of his lower body, from the chest down, was gone.

It had been the oddest thing to see. He had looked like he’d simply laid down, arms splayed around his head like one of those old models back before the Omnium was destroyed. 

His parts of his rib cage showed, nicks in the visible bone, but apart from that? There was just a splatter of blood on the ground. No organs left behind, not even his boots, though some of his torn armor was still there. Everyone had seen it. It had been hard not to when it was right in front of the Take Away. People gradually began to lock up after that. They stopped trying to find where the putrefactive smells came from. There was enough horror happening in Junkertown without following your curiosity and finding the leftovers of a person. 

Now when someone disappears around the full moon no one goes looking.

Roadhog had thought the screams were bad but, as they quiet down, they’re replaced with soft whimpers that are worse. It sounds like a wounded animal or a crying dog trying to make its way into the bedroom. He has both the urge to get up and leave and, worse, the urge to open the door. ‘Not until you see the sun’, Junkrat had said, smiling. Nervous. All teeth.

Animals showed all their teeth when they were scared or trying to warn others from getting too close.

Roadhog turns to the fire, moving it around to make sure the embers don’t fade away. But he doesn’t take his eyes away from the doors as the keening continues. Faintly, he can hear scritching against the metal. It’s only an hour before sunrise, but it feels longer. This entire night has felt like an eternity. He watches and waits. What snacks he’d brought are forgotten due to a lack of hunger. Hard to keep an appetite after the shit he’d heard tonight.

As the sky begins to turn pink, all the noises go silent. Suddenly, there are more wails of pain and then, once more, not a sound. 

He stands up slowly, looking at the chains, the lock, the doors.  _ Wait until sunrise _ . There’s a deep frown on his features as he thinks. Roadhog’s hands are slow as he unlocks the lock, as he pulls the chains off, and opens the doors. He almost expects something to burst out and that his flippant disregard for own his safety would finally do him in where a nuclear explosion hadn’t.

The early morning light shines down the stairs where the scent of musk and blood has intensified and he hears a wet slapping sound coming up the stairwell. The darkness is as pervasive as ever, but what comes out is an exhausted looking Junkrat covered in blood and thick hair that sticks to him messily. There are dark circles around his eyes and his skin is a pale pallor under the tacky blood, but he’s smiling. 

Junkrat gives a sigh of relief as he sees that Hog is still there, and he makes his way up the stairs. When he’s offered his wrapped up limbs, his expression brightens and he speaks as he reattaches them.

“Thanks fer not taking yer cut and splitting. See! We’re already great partners,” he says, weakly giggling. Of course, Junkrat ignores that he hasn’t paid Hog yet so there wouldn’t really be a cut to take and run off with. “No trouble, yeah?”

There are so many questions running through Hog’s mind as he watches the Rat. 

Why is he covered in blood? What’s up with the weird fur? It looks to have come from some kind of animal. What were those horrible screams? His eyes look to the latch doors and he can see scratches in the metal’s surface. What made those? There’s even more questions and some connections clicking in his head but instead... He keeps silent. He’s not being paid to ask questions. 

Even weirder still, Junkrat doesn’t jump to explain.

Strike one. 

It’s unusual for Junkrat to not jump at the opportunity to talk, especially about himself. 

Roadhog’s apparent lack of curiosity doesn’t bother him. That’s another reason why Junkrat likes Hog. He doesn’t ask questions even in extremely unusual circumstances. Junkrat hopes the both of them can keep up this partnership. But until then…

“I’m tired, mate. Up all night, ya know how it is when yer brainstorming. Let’s get outta here.”

Strike two.

Junkrat is never tired. Even when he’s up for days running only on coffee that’s more dirt than caffeine, Junkrat would keep going full speed until he passed out.

Junkrat doesn’t just meekly shrug away, but when his limbs are placed back, he does just that and keeps his gaze averted. Again, Hog makes no comment. Instead he slowly turns away and begins to pack up everything, throwing sand over the fire to kill it. When it’s all secured and ready, he makes sure Junkrat is following before he starts the trip back to Junkertown.

That Junkrat follows quietly is strike three.


	2. Rumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longer Roadhog hangs around him, the more he notices the poor reputation that clings to Junkrat everywhere he goes. It’s a reputation that Junkrat has earned with everything from minor acts of arson to almost blowing up the Take Away. He swears he doesn’t mean it. He just feels the itch to blow something up. Some people --like Roadhog, though he’d never admit it-- seem amused by Junkrat’s antics but a majority find less humor in it.

The morning they return from the bunker, Junkrat cleans himself of the mysterious blood and fur stuck to his skin. He’s sluggish and sways as he follows Roadhog back to their home. The moment he gets to his place he lays down and sleeps. He spends the entirety of the day passed out on the old couch. Nothing wakes him up. Roadhog tries a couple times throughout the day, concerned that his boss will cark it without even knowing what his treasure is but no. Just sleeping. 

It’s unnerving how quiet Junkrat’s shack is. Instead of the usual sounds of metal banging or his high reedy laugh, or even a small explosion here and there, there’s absolute silence.

During that time, he comes to a decision and he heads to Junkertown, making a quick trade for something most people found useless nowadays.

A notebook.

In it, Roadhog starts by writing down the things he finds odd in Junkrat. Not the bald patches of skin, not his thinness, not the lack of limbs. All of those were things shared by most Junkers in some way or another. He notes how nervous Junkrat had seemed before they went to the bunker, more so than his usual jittery demeanor, or even before heading to the middle of nowhere to lock himself up. If he remembers correctly, Junkrat had been more willing to trade for food beforehand too, though with his reputation he got little back. His lack of energy and the fact that he was sleeping the entire day away was something else that caught his attention given how Junkrat rarely slept in the month he’d known him.

Now, as strange and odd as all of this is, it isn’t uncommon for the younger ‘residents’ like Junkrat to be unpredictable and irrational in their behavior.

But even with that in mind, there were things that had been just  _ wrong _ . Like how he came up from the bunker covered in blood and fur. How at one point he’d come close to Hog and from that rancid mouth of his he’d caught a whiff of an odd smell. He couldn’t properly grasp it but it was familiar. Metallic. Wrong. The screams from within the bunker. The deep indentations in the thick, metal doors. What had been down there? He could tell this is something big, but what that something was he isn’t completely sure yet. 

Junkrat finally wakes up a day or so later.

He comes up to the door of Roadhog’s barn asking to borrow some coffee grounds, dark circles under his eyes. There’s no mention of the day prior or the trek in the desert. The most Junkrat does is complain about how much time he’s wasted on sleep before he slinks back to the little house Hog let him stay in. The familiar sounds of metal clanging and high-pitched giggles soon return, just as they had been in the prior month.

Junkrat spends the rest of the day working on his new projects. Explosives, mechanics, little bits and bobs of engineering with what scrap he could find. It’s as if nothing happened at all. As if they didn’t have that fucking weird night in the bunker. Roadhog doesn’t bring it up and neither does Junkrat.

The month passes like this.

Half of Junkrat’s time is spent working on his precious projects, most of which either explode on his face or he becomes distracted with something new. Every time he eagerly drags Roadhog into the house to show off something he’s completed, there’s a dozen unfinished devices and forgotten blueprints scattered all over. On the walls, on his workbench, Roadhog even spies an incomplete bomb under one of the couch cushions one day.

The other half of Junkrat’s time is spent on putting Roadhog’s bodyguarding skills to good use. Or babysitting skills, depending on who is asked.  _ And his patience _ .

The longer Roadhog hangs around him, the more he notices the poor reputation that clings to Junkrat everywhere he goes. It’s a reputation that Junkrat has earned with everything from minor acts of arson to almost blowing up the Take Away. He swears he doesn’t mean it. He just feels the  _ itch _ to blow something up. Some people --like Roadhog, though he’d never admit it-- seem amused by Junkrat’s antics but a majority find less humor in it.

Between keeping other Junkers from pummeling Junkrat to a pulp and half heartedly putting out the occasional fire that he starts, Roadhog also takes a role in making sure Junkrat actually eats. The younger Junker frequently forgets. Hog can’t force him to stop chugging down watered down coffee and actually go to sleep, but he can at least get Junkrat to put some sustenance in his body once in a while.

Apart from the effort Roadhog puts into guarding his body, Junkrat is infinitely grateful for the silence of his companion. He never brings up the bunker and Junkrat is happy to pretend it never happened as well.

About a week before the full moon, things start to turn bizarre. 

If not for the fact that now he actively observes and looks for changes in Junkrat, Roadhog likely wouldn’t have noticed. It’s only been two months that they know each other but he has a feeling Rat is a creature of habit and his habits change drastically. Junkrat goes from forgetting to eat to constantly craving food.

It starts harmless enough. Junkrat comes to the barn doors and invites himself in, watching Roadhog make some soup. “Whatcha doin’?” He asks, already putting his nose all over Roadhog’s business. The larger man is currently preparing some of the fish he managed to get for a soup, though vegetables were harder to come by. As he fillets the fish into something more manageable, Junkrat tries to squeeze in closer under his arm.

“Why don’t you put some real meat in it, mate? It’ll taste much better! Wait, wait! Why don’t we just  _ roast _ the meat and skip the soup? That’ll be way better than this dollop you’re making! Didn’t take you fer the type to do the healthy option, Hoggy.” 

He’s still trying to squeeze under his arm as he prattles on, comically pushing with his legs until his head pops through and he sniffs about like a rat. Roadhog grunts deeply and keeps working with Junkrat under his arm. When he moves to the side, Junkrat leans over, standing on his peg leg to keep himself upright.

"Don't eat read meat."  


“WHAT!? Why not! It’s the best sort of meat! Why wouldn’t you eat meat, mate? Ha! Meat ma--URGH!” 

It’s very funny when mid sentence Roadhog squeezes his skinny neck and opens his arm subtly to let him pull out. He coughs and wheezes, cursing up a storm with a whiny, nasally voice.

After that, Junkrat comes to the barn doors and invites himself over for breakfast. Then lunch. Then dinner. Then an after dinner snack. The next day he also comes for breakfast and second breakfast --and brunch-- effectively running his supplies scarce far too quickly. Hog, who is on better terms with the Junkertown merchants than Junkrat is, goes to trade for fish and meat of any kind for his partner to sate his voracious appetite. At least maybe then he’d stop his bellyaching.

Junkertown has entertainment of all sorts for all types of people. Mecha fights, drinking, finding wayward Omnics and throwing them to the scrap heap, etc. But by far the biggest and most valuable of them is  _ gossip _ . After all, through gossip one could gather all sort of information. Sometimes that information was actually true though not often. Roadhog himself isn’t much for gossip, though it does amuse him how every Junker ran the gossip mill like a bunch of old biddies.

Unfortunately, it also held substance to it from time to time. Junkrat’s treasure was a good example of this. That information had spread like wildfire, a rumor that had been confirmed when Roadhog became Junkrat’s bodyguard. After all, what would a scrapping little shit need an ex-enforcer bodyguard for?

He sets good scrap in a bag near a merchant with quite an array of meats and, while they eagerly start counting up what can and can’t be traded, he catches a conversation.

“So no weird shite this time around?” 

It’s a pair of them, one a heavily scarred woman and an anxious, twiggy looking bloke.

“Nah. Not a one! S’a good month I think. But you know the Queen. Don’t trust it for none. I mean. She  _ says  _ she’s seen it. And some folks say so too. But me, I think it’s just some Roo that’s what gots irradificated or somethin’!” He has the same jitters Junkrat has, the nervous, anxious twitching of someone who grew up in the irradiated Outback from childhood.

The woman is more firm, stern looking. Her face is heavily scarred and her left eye is missing. “Don’t let her Enforcers catch you saying that. I know it sounds like a crock of shit but ever since she started putting curfews and siht we’ve had less drunkards getting killed by the dingos. Or the  drop bears, if she thinks so.” She chuckles but tries to hide it, looking around offhandedly. “But if she says the yowie’s real, then we do as Her Majesty commands.”

He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation as the merchant is asking him to follow him in so he can hand him over the proper amount of food. Even for him, this is too much food. Two whole crates.

It sits on him wrong again but it’s not like he had to pay for this. Junkrat himself had parted with most of his scrap and if there’s one thing his scrawny partner has an eye for, it’s good scrap So he stays silent and brings Junkrat the food he asks for.

Junkrat is a twitchy little thing always itching to see things burn. But he becomes more jittery as the week continues to the point that not even explosions seem to curve his worsening mood. 

Roadhog finds he’s not surprised when Junkrat tells him they’ll be heading to the bunker again.

“Same as last month. Creative genius at work, ya know?”

He smiles the same as he did when he was explaining. Anxious. Nervous. There’s that smell to his mouth again.

They both head to the bunker before sundown. The place doesn’t look disturbed as it was hidden away before they left and Roadhog begins to set up camp. As he does so, Junkrat repeats the steps from last month, wrapping up his prosthesis and giving them to Hog as he makes his way down the darkened stairwell. He waves and smiles, then vanishes into the darkness. The metal door is chained shut and locked and he waits, hook and gun in hand.

The night proceeds in eerily similar fashion to last month’s full moon.

Pained, inhuman wails rise up from the closed door and those turn into aggressive shrieks and screams. Again, Roadhog feels a fear like he’d never felt before, comparable only to when he’d seen the explosion of the Omnium. A few times, as heavy as it is, the solid metal door visibly shakes and rattles from the force of whatever is hitting it in an attempt to open it, or break through. 

This time, it doesn’t last the full night.

Halfway through the night, the bangs stop and turn to the whimpers followed by loud metallic scraping at the doors. At times the thing still rattles the doors but it’s not a litany of clanks and bangs. 

Roadhog slowly takes his notebook out. There’s still fear, but writing down everything he knows might help him make sense of ...well, whatever this is. Knowledge is power, right? Sure. He needs a watch. He’d get one next time he goes into town, but for now Hog makes an estimate of how long the angry screeching went on for. He’s certain that it hadn’t gone on as long as it had last month.

There’s something as thrilling as it is terrifying in looking at the rusted metal and wondering what could be lurking there. What could possibly be inside? Roadhog wants to open the doors but Junkrat’s reedy voice rises again at the back of his mind.

‘ _ Not until after sunrise _ .’ 

He does make a note to make sure the hinges are still strong after this whole mess of a night is done. He wants to look now but the mental image of him checking the hinges and whatever was inside broke out comes to him unbidden. He  _ does not  _ want whatever it to burst out suddenly. What sort of bullshit excuse is “creative genius at work” anyway? But.

_ But. _

But maybe he is being paranoid. After all, some Junkers are even more far gone than Junkrat is, screaming and wailing while they pulled out their own hair and tugged at their skin until they bled. Maybe Junkrat had placed something down there like a rug to get so much fur on him. Maybe he’s just going through some sort of attack. Or seizures? But what about the blood? He grunts in frustration and looks at the doors where he can hear the pathetic whines and scratching.

_ Tipua _ .

Roadhog shakes his head. Uncanny thing. A shape-shifting demon. Usually it’s for objects, but this is fucking uncanny enough to have brought on that thought. Maybe this is his punishment for being part of Australian Liberation Front. He stares at the fire he made to keep him company and guard against any other animals that found him interesting (and maybe a meal). It had turned to embers, smoldering weakly in the cool purple of dawn.

As the sun begins to rise in the horizon of the Outback, he hears the pained screaming again. It’s as horrible as last time, just as searing, and it almost pushes forwards ugly memories. It makes him feel like he’s being pushed out of his body but he forces himself back by biting the inside of his cheek. The pain and taste of blood ground him. Is it healthy? No. But it works.

When the screaming ends, he stands up and slowly walks to the doors, undoing the chain like he did a month ago. Junkrat stumbles out from the darkness again and into the fresh air looking like he’d been through absolute hell. He has that thick fur, blood, and sweat sticking to his body again. He grins brightly at Roadhog despite it.

“Mornin’! Hope you weren’t too bored out here. I dunno how you do it! Just sitting outside fer hours with nothing to do would drive me mad. Ready ta head back? I feel stuffed.” He’s still grinning widely as Roadhog stares down at him in silence. He fidgets when there’s no response. “Wot. Got something on my face?”

There’s a slight sheen of sweat forming on his forehead that has nothing to do with whatever went down in the bunker before he titters with nervous laughter as Hog hands him his arm and leg. Again, Roadhog shrugs and makes no comment. Junkrat beams, happy to know his bodyguard isn’t going to ask questions and they go back to Hog’s barn without a word to each other.

Once he’s sure Junkrat is fast asleep and that he won’t wake up, Roadhog leans back on his chair, the Outback heat making the air tremble and shift into mirages. Sweat drips from his forehead but he’s used to it at this point, like a fly trying to catch his attention. The notebook is in his hand and he rereads what he’s heard and observed for now. He’d sleep but the entire situation left him wide awake and full of adrenaline.

How does it all come together?

He grunts as he scratches his belly and thinks.Time to delve into the ideas he’s been having up till now.  The first idea that comes to mind is that some animal or some huge mutated thing is down there with Junkrat. Maybe a pet, or something he considers a pet. But how would he keep it down there for a whole month? And he took no food or anything with him. He also rarely strayed far from Hog’s sight after he had become his bodyguard, so it made even less sense.

So much for idea number one.

What if the attacks had just been plain old Junkertown rats instead of some cryptid monster or whatever? After the Omnium exploded and showered radiation on the Outback, rats had mutated so many of them were the size of small cats. He’d heard tales of some poor fuck had fallen asleep and they’d all just. Eaten him. One moment he was there and the next there was a swarm of them, all chittering, all chewing away. There weren’t even  _ bones _ left. Too bad cats hadn’t been able to withstand the radiation… 

But there had been sightings of some kind of huge beast. Even the Queen had seen the thing once. The only reason most people actively hide away and bunker down is due to the Queen’s orders since most Junkers don’t believe there’s a mutant beast around. Normally, Roadhog would be skeptical too but he’d seen the bodies before and  _ something _ was causing it. Plus, Bruce had sworn up and down he caught sight of it too one night and Hog trusts the man’s judgement.

There goes idea number two.

He groans and looks to the shack where Junkrat is asleep. There is a third idea. The one that keeps popping up, and it makes him roll his eyes so far up he’s sure they’ll pop off his skull. 

_ Junkrat is some sort of werewolf.  _

And what he hates most is how much  _ everything fits _ . He’s a big horror fan and he used to watch a lot of dumb B-Horror flicks of all kinds so of course he knows what the ‘tell-tale signs’ are.

Junkrat’s hunger increases the week before the full moon. His mood also changes during that time. He locks himself up  _ during _ the full moon.  _ And! _ He comes out all covered in blood and fur afterwards exhausted. Not to mention he sleeps like a corpse afterwards. This entire situation had occurred twice in the full moon, tying everything up in a neat package.

_ Except it is so stupid _ . There is no such thing. Sure, there are Omnics and Hog had lived in a generation where the bots had achieved the goddamn Singularity, but he’s putting his fucking foot down at  _ werewolves _ . It’s stupid, it isn’t rational, and it is impossible. His jaw clenches.

Well… not impossible. Just improbable.

Slowly, his gaze turns to the old house next to the barn. The only sounds around them is the howling wind and buzzing of flies. It would only be a second. Just a minute. And Junkrat had slept like the dead last month, so why would today be any different? 

With his mind made up, he stands and shoves the notebook into his back pocket before he makes his way to Junkrat’s little home. Even with his heavy footfalls, Hog can hear the deep snores from within. In the two months Roadhog has known Junkrat, he’s noticed that the younger Junker seldom sleeps and instead prefers to stay up for several days at a time before crashing into a restless slumber. Typically Junkrat jolts awake at the slightest disturbance, but he hadn’t last month. Roadhog suspects today will be no different and he slowly pushes the door open.

The inside is an absolute mess, of course it is, with empty plastic cups, beer cans, crumpled up paper, and a few dirty clothes scattered on the floor. The old kitchenette has a coffee machine with more cups stacked around it. It smells of burnt coffee and he can see that there’s still liquid inside the pot. Up against the wall is the couch where Junkrat lays, curled up under a threadbare blanket.

The door is noisy and his footsteps are loud. As Roadhog steps past Junkrat, he nearly trips over a weathered cricket bat and knocks over a little row of cups onto the floor with a clatter. Junkrat doesn’t even move. Only after the full moon does he sleep so heavily, so this might be Roadhog’s only chance until next month to snoop around to his heart’s content. He makes his way to Junkrat’s workbench and starts to look around.

Among the usual schematics for bombs and traps, he finds two hidden away under all the other blueprints that stand out from the rest.

One of the blueprints is for what seems like an electric shock collar like for a dog. Junkrat definitely does not own a dog. He’s not entirely sure about the voltage written down, but it seems excessive. There’s even a remote control that can be activated quite some meters away from the collar. The chicken scratch notes mention something about ‘in case of emergency’. 

A second is a set of plans show a muzzle. A pretty large one. One shows leather as the main material but those have been scratched out and there’s a note ‘Didn’t work’. The same is written with an attempt at rope. The latest material is metal with several types of metal jotted down, but he seems worried about cutting into the skin of whatever is going to wear it.

Roadhog would make a joke about this being for some BDSM shit, but this seems more like objects to be used practically instead of for entertainment. He’d know.

There’s not much else that catches his attention and he pauses, looking at Junkrat. He looks younger like this, relaxed and sleeping, even with his ridiculous loud snores. He opens the door and makes his way back to his barn, though he does bring him a better blanket to replace the ratty, holey one Junkrat is using. It’s an old blanket that he’s owned for years now, thick and quilted. But he has others and he doesn’t need this one anyway, not when it looks like Junkrat can use it more. 

When Roadhog finally settles in the porch with a can of beer, he makes notes about the odd projects Junkrat had. Then he hides the notebook away once more as he sits and watches the large expanse of desert. They’re a few hours away from Junkertown and he’s glad they are.

He has a feeling people would notice their monthly excursions and, as Junkrat’s bodyguard, he had to make sure this --whatever it is-- is kept as quiet as possible.

* * *

Junkrat steals a chair for him.

It had started with an offhand comment during one of their trips to the Take Away. The tire chairs are surprisingly comfortable and, even if they threaten to give way sometimes, they’ve never outright broken. Then one morning he wakes up to the little fucker beaming, sweating and looking like he’d been shot at several times.

“Good morning, Hoggy!”

Junkrat perks up the moment Hog sits up from the bed with a grunt. He’s glad he wears a mask to sleep. Who else but Junkrat would come into someone’s house unannounced in the earliest hours of the morning? Maybe someone looking to get shot.

“Look what I got you!” He jumps in place and makes a motion towards the telltale blue seat. “Seein’ as you’ve been doing such a good job at guarding me body, I fancied I’d be magnanimous and gift you something! Ain’t I kingly?” 

Junkrat’s skinny chest puffs out, hands on his hips, chin up, and he smiles all teeth.

There’s a long moment of uncomfortable silence as they both stay put. Him on his bed, Junkrat seemingly waiting for praise or some kind of validation. He grunts again and gets up, starting to get himself ready for the day.

“I knew you’d like it! Figured you would! Can read you like a glove I can.” 

He follows like a puppy and just as excited, chattering about his projects and it’s not long before he’s grabbing Roadhog’s arm and pulling him back to his home to show him.

It’s been four months since Junkrat hired Roadhog and, while there’s that weird situation every full moon, it’s been surprisingly nice. Junkrat is as loud and obnoxious as ever but with the trouble he brings along, Roadhog finds himself enjoying the constant action after years of self imposed isolation.

The week before he has to start trading for more meat as usual, he notices Junkrat’s a little more touchy and tends to come over more instead of staying holed up in his shack. Roadhog himself has a nightly ritual, sitting on his porch with a couple of beers and quietly watching the sunset. It feels like a good way to end a blazing day, to feel the chill of the evening as the sun lowers in the horizon.

He settles down and grunts, opening the cooler and pulling out a can as he waits. Junkrat’s home is quiet for once and he wonders if he crashed for the day. Caffeine can only do so much. As the temperature starts to drop and the colors of the sky turn to pinks and oranges, the shack’s door opens and Junkrat hobbles over with what he knows by now is a nervous smile. And the quilted blanket over his shoulders.

He had actually kept it. Roadhog had almost forgotten he’d even given Rat the quilt. Now that he thinks about it, Junkrat hasn’t mentioned the blanket at all. 

“Evening Hog! Figured you wouldn’t mind me joining you. Better than sitting all on your lonesome! I can’t just leave ya alone, I’m quite considerate and a good boss after all.”

Hog doesn’t reply as Junkrat plops down on the porch and grabs a beer as well, leaning back. 

“So what you do this for? Just watch the sun go away?” 

Junkrat sips noisily, beer sloshing down his neck but somehow it doesn’t spill on the blanket. He holds it close and keeps watching, though his leg is bouncing. 

“Kinda slow, ain’t it?” Rat giggles and scoots himself closer. 

Roadhog grunts in response. 

“Well scoot over!” He cackles and scurries to his side, obviously done with being subtle and sits on the cooler besides him.

Maybe it’s due to growing up with a lack of contact or he’s just lonely and needs some of sort of warmth because the skinny Rat leans on him and, for once, stays silent. Not a peep, just his leg bouncing and his sharp edges pressing against Roadhog’s belly as the sky turns purple and finally dark.

Just as Junkrat’s silence begins to unsettle Roadhog, he suddenly stands.

“Welp! Time to get back to work!” Junkrat says, tone reedy and anxious as he hobbles away without looking back.

To Roadhog’s surprise, Junkrat begins to sit with him to watch the sunset. It’s the same thing every night. Hog settles down on the porch then Junkrat comes over to join him in drinking a couple of beers. Hog is silent as Junkrat rambles on about mostly nothing of great importance, though even he seems subdued. After the first time, Junkrat only leans against him once as the sun finally sets on the horizon. The moment Roadhog moves, Rat jumps up and scuttles away with an excuse about leaving the oven on. 

As much as Junkrat loves mayhem, having a consistent schedule seems to help curve his sour mood the week before the full moon. At least until the day of the full moon. When they head to the bunker, they do so earlier this time much to Junkrat’s ire.

“What’re we going earlier fer? I don’t need to go till before sundown, Hoggy. Are you listening to me? We don’t gotta go early!” 

He whines through the whole trip to the bunker and, out of Hog’s peripheral, he can see him looking back to their home while twitching more than usual. Could be his full moon jitters. Or his regular jitters. Over the past four months, Roadhog had begun to recognize there was a difference between them. He can tell these are the same Junkrat had had when he first met him at the bar, though that’s the most he can tell at this point.

Hog is pulling along a rickety cart behind him with supplies, a toolbox, and scrap metal inside. It’s possible Junkrat is nervous because he doesn’t know what they’re for. Why take all of this out into the middle of nowhere? His bodyguard clearly has a plan but hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with what it is aside from a few dismissive grunts when asked. At least Junkrat has evened the playing field by bringing his own secret supplies with him this time.

When they arrive Roadhog sees the sand is scuffed. Though most of it has been blown away by the wind, he can still make out some of their footprints and the darkened earth from his campfire. He’ll have to make sure that when they leave this time, it looks like no one comes here.

Roadhog starts to set up his camp for the upcoming night. Nothing too complicated. His bedroll, a fire, and a weathered book to keep him busy. As he pulls the cart full of scrap closer to the bunker doors, he stops. It’s too quiet. When he looks over, Junkrat is staring at the doors, metal arm holding his flesh one. He looks strange, standing without being hunched over and silent.

“What.” Roadhog says gruffly.

It makes Junkrat jump a foot in the air and strike a ridiculous fighting pose like something out of a knockoff Bruce Lee movie. When he realizes that it’s just Hog, he glares and returns to slouching.

“Don’t fucking do that, mate! Gonna give me a heart attack one o’ these days,” Rat hisses.

“What.” He repeats.

“Nothin’. Just thinking,” he says, eyes darting away. 

Roadhog looms over Junkrat and can see sweat shining on his brow. Rat is a shit liar. His hand raises and Junkrat tenses as if ready for a blow. Instead he just sets his hand on Junkrat’s head, feeling his sweaty, greasy hair under his calloused palm. He curtly pats Junkrat’s head twice then grabs him by his bandolier, setting him aside.

“Oi! What was that fer!? Ya don’t have to manhandle me, ya fuckin’ dill.”

Roadhog starts to inspect the bunker doors, paying no attention to Junkrat as he rants. He’s glad he thought to bring supplies for repairs because some of the bolts of the door seem loose. He sets to work, fixing the hinges and using bits of the scrap metal from the cart to reinforce the door. Junkrat gets bored within minutes of Roadhog starting repairs and goes through the scrap in the cart. There’s only so much for him to entertain himself with in the middle of the desert so he talks. And talks. It’s good they left so early because the sun is halfway across the sky by the time Roadhog is done. 

“I hate waiting. Didn’t have to come so early,” Junkrat grumbles half-heartedly.

When Roadhog sits down on his swag, Junkrat scuttles over to lean on him again as if to leech off his heat. There’s a brief moment where Hog considers just pushing him off, but his body is burning up and he’s shaking as though he has the flu. Another thing to jot down later. Of course, maybe he’s just actually sick.

Even if Roadhog sits stiffly and makes no motions to touch him, Junkrat is comforted by how good he has been about this whole thing. Maybe nothing bad would happen. Maybe this could be a permanent solution. Of course, the slight maintenance on the door isn’t enough. It needs something to make it last longer since he’d gotten close to tearing it apart a few times. And maybe a few backups just in case. He still has designs in his workshop for possible emergencies. But overall… He nuzzles against Roadhog’s belly and watches as the older man starts the fire, quilt over his thin shoulders. Maybe this could all work.

As sun laps at the horizon, he hands Roadhog his prosthesis with a honest smile. There’s something else there but Hog’s not sure what. Junkrat hops down the stairs slowly, the quilt still tight around his shoulders as though he’s freezing. Maybe he really does have the flu. 

The chains Roadhog uses on the door are thicker and he had actually traded for good, sturdy locks. When he’s done, he can’t make the door budge but he’s not sure whatever is inside will have the same problem.

The moon rises slowly and with it the screams from within the bunker.

Roadhog doesn’t know if he should be worried that the fear he feels isn’t as intense as it used to be. It’s still there but it’s subdued to something akin to a lowkey anxiousness, almost like having a constant electronic hum from a television set. Not the fear you get after a car crash, after you’ve seen how easy it would be for you to die. Hog considers for a moment that he’s probably getting too complacent before dismissing the idea.

He sits back down on his bedroll and pulls out his notebook along with an old pocket watch. It’s rusted on the back and its face is faded, but it’s still functional if not off by a few minutes. Difficult thing to find as most of them had been traded for the important little bits and pieces inside. Difficult to find and expensive.

The sounds are written down according to time. First come the more human sounding screams, piercing until they become raw and wet. This lasts for about ten uncomfortable minutes before they start to change into something less Junkrat-like and more guttural. After thirty minutes, the screams quiet before starting up again sounding more angry than pained. After thirty-five minutes, the banging on the doors start. 

This time however, instead of hours and hours of the scratching, it stops after only about two hours. Roadhog hasn’t been able to keep a very accurate measure of the time until now but even then he can tell it didn’t last as long as it had been in the previous months. Those had gone on right up until dawn.

He raises a brow and looks at the locked doors. It’s quiet, not even the sound of whimpering slipping through. Why is it so quiet? The past three times hadn’t been. Had something happened to Junkrat down there in that dark bunker? Roadhog waits for another hour but all he hears are the sounds of unseen cicadas.

He grabs his hook and gun, and slowly makes his way to the locked doors. Silence still. Maybe Junkrat, or whatever monstrous pet he kept down there, had fallen asleep? Maybe he had finally killed it. Roadhog sets his notebook in his back pocket and he looks at the locks and chains. Every bit of instinct and common sense is telling him not to but he’s already undoing the locks, hands slowly pulling the thick chains away. 

Isn’t this how people in B-horror movies died? Got too curious and decided to go against the instructions they were given? The silence is even worse than the screams or the rattling doors. He looks at the bare doors with a growing sense of foreboding.

He opens them, the hinges creaking noisily, and stands back as they stay open. The inside is pitch black. There’s no sound apart from the night insects and his own heavy breathing. Then there’s a soft skittering like claws on a tile floor. His grip on his shotgun and hook tighten, knuckles turning white.

Something jumps out at him from inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And suddenly, a cliffhanger.  
> What will await our brave heroes(?) that full moon night?  
> Is Roadhog okay?  
> What has jumped from inside the bunker?
> 
> Join us next time, on DRAGON BA  
> (comments are welcomed and appreciated. Let's us know y'all want more!)


	3. Boxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s nothing but blind panic making the edges of his vision darken as he struggles to breathe, gasping like a fish out of water. As if his arm and hand weren’t enough, he’s almost certain he’s having an asthma attack as a cherry on top of the shit cake he’s being served. His hand fumbles as he takes a shot of hogdrogen. A flash of memory comes to him, back in the first days of the apocalypse when he’d see young, desperate people point shaky guns at him with fear in their eyes. Except now he’s the one full of fear.

There’s a split second of seeing a wide, gaping jaw of saliva coated fangs ready to clamp down before his reflexes kick in and he puts his arm up to defend himself. Not a moment too soon; had he taken a millisecond longer, he’s sure it’d have ripped his throat out.

The momentum of the beast’s lunge paired with its massive size manages to shove Roadhog to the ground, pain shooting up his spine from the hard crash. A scream rips from his throat. Its teeth tear through his armor, through skin, through muscle, and it sends a wave of disgust coursing through him when he hears the teeth grind against _bone_.

His own blood spills onto the face of his mask and over the lenses as the monster thrashes in an attempt at pulling flesh off, stopped only by the metal and leather of his armor. Only sheer strength keeps his shoulder from dislocating.

Hog tightens his grip on his hook and slams it into the beast’s ribs but, the moment he does, it hisses furiously. In a blur of movement, its tail swings around and strikes his hand with a sickening crack like a whip, causing him to let go of his weapon. It breaks the skin and he’s certain that its broken his hand.

It keeps him pinned to the ground, its claws digging into his belly. Hog’s head is spinning, his back hurts, his arm is on fire, but he needs to fight. He _has_ to. Even though his hand is broken, he still has spiked metal rings and uses them to punch it in what he assumes is its snout. It lets go with a pained screech and scuttles off of him for a moment.

He stands up faster than he has in ages, adrenaline pumping through his veins. It lunges again, maw wide open and he raises his scrapgun. It clamp down on the gun, its fangs burying themselves in the metal, and it yanks his last weapon out of his grasp. It hops a few yards away and Roadhog can clearly see it now that its focused on chewing the gun apart rather than him.

The thing is _massive_. Easily eight foot long, give or take. It’s lean with muscle though he can see its ribs and spine protruding as though it’s starving. It’s covered in coarse blondish fur with bald patches where he can see tan skin underneath. The ears atop its head swivel, one trained on him. It also has a long, hairless tail that snaps against the ground making puffs of dirt fly up as it keeps biting and yanking at the metal.

_The monster is Junkrat._

Even with a muzzle more appropriate for an animal like a dog or rat, the lack of right arm and leg are unmistakable. What other reason could there be? Just a coincidence that the beast has the same missing limbs as Junkrat? He can’t breathe. As stupid as he’d thought the idea was initially, Roadhog had been right. _He’d been right._ He should have never started investigating this; he should have never opened the door. Hog’s curiosity is going to get him killed tonight.

There’s nothing but blind panic making the edges of his vision darken as he struggles to breathe, gasping like a fish out of water. As if his arm and hand weren’t enough, he’s almost certain he’s having an asthma attack as a cherry on top of the shit cake he’s being served. His hand fumbles as he takes a shot of hogdrogen. A flash of memory comes to him, back in the first days of the apocalypse when he’d see young, desperate people point shaky guns at him with fear in their eyes. Except now he’s the one full of fear.

The gashes along his stomach rapidly heal and his bones in his hand mend from the hogdrogen, but his arm where the beast’s fangs tore into him only heals halfway. He takes another hit and, while his lungs open up, he’s suddenly hit by wave of vertigo. His whole body abruptly feels _wrong_. He feels cold and shivery, but his arm burns with a pain he’s only felt once before.

As a young man in his ALF days, he’d once brushed against a Gympie-Gympie plant and it had burned like acid for days. The pain had been unbearable, had even brought him to tears. He’d been lucky that someone in his troop had lived in the area their whole life and knew how to treat it. But Roadhog had known of plenty of people who weren’t so lucky and who felt pain from the poison for years after being stung once.

This isn’t right. The hogdrogen had always healed him without any issue so why does he feel so sick now? Why does his arm sting so badly?

He falls on one knee, panic and fear racking up worse. He has to stand up. The sound of him rasping desperately for breath causes the creature to stop, looking up at Roadhog with Junkrat’s bright orange eyes. It growls low in its throat and spits out the bits of metal from the destroyed gun. The pieces look like tattered aluminum foil.

He has to get up or it will kill him.

His vision swims and the sounds around him dim. He’s burning up. Sweat beads under his mask and he shakes almost violently. Why is it so hot? He gives one last wheezing breath before he falls backwards, blacking out.

* * *

 

As his prey falls to the ground, Rat stops growling and tilts his head to the side. Had it died? He’s certain it’s still breathing but maybe it is trying to play dead? Little prey did that sometimes when he found their hiding spots. His aggression is replaced with wary curiosity as he slowly approaches the food, sniffing. He recognizes this smell. 

He’s woken up in the underground borrow only a few times, trapped inside despite chewing and clawing, but each time this smell had been present. This smell is the one that had always been near the shaky ceiling, coupled with the scent of fresh air. He looks at the big body. He’d never seen food this big before. Most of his prey was skin and bones, so having so much meat at once would be a special treat and would soothe the constant ache in his belly.

He carefully comes closer again, still expecting his prey to suddenly strike him again. When it doesn’t even move, he starts to sniff about and laps at the blood still sluggishly dripping from its arm.

The blood tastes _vile_.

He screeches and jolts back, spitting and shaking his head wildly as he grinds his head against the ground. Its blood is the most abhorrent taste he’d ever had, worse than the rotten trash he’s eaten before, worse than the times he’d accidentally ingested rat poison. That’s what it has to be, right? This prey is _poisonous_.

Rat eats some dirt to get the taste out of his mouth as he glares at the… well what is it? Humans don’t taste like that. He’s had years of eating humans to know what they’re like. It smells like very good food, it’s big and warm, but it tastes disgusting. Rat pokes at it uncertainly, still expecting it to stop playing dead and attack him again.

After a few minutes of the not-human staying on the ground, Rat chuffs in satisfaction. No need for concern, no need to relocate to another burrow just yet. Perhaps he had killed it and it’s bleeding out. Now driven by hunger and boredom more than anything else, he starts poking around the camp.

It all smells strongly of the not-human and Rat chews up everything before spitting it out, learning about the world around him by using his mouth. Most of the camp is, unsurprisingly, inedible. He finds some food around the camp, mostly dried fruit, but it does nothing to assuage the hunger for meat.

Rat spies something brightly colored among the goods and he pants, tongue lolling out. It’s large and all yellow, and his first thought is that it might have food inside. Humans love to put food inside little metal cans for him to chew up. He sniffs the can then he puts it in his mouth, nibbling it experimentally before he puntures it with his fangs.

The can hisses as the pressure inside releases, spraying some kind of thick mist inside his mouth that makes him wail. It’s the same gross taste as the blood, except horribly intense!

He jumps away with a yowl and gracelessly falls onto his back before he rights himself, his muscles trembling. He spits and retches before he finally vomits what little food he’s eaten tonight. The stupid taste lingers in his mouth but now it’s mixed with bile. Whatever that yellow can is, Rat knows now that it’s full of poison just like the passed out not-human. He glares at the punctured can still hissing and leaking fluid onto the dirt and he bristles. There’s a moment of him slapping his tail aggressively on the ground before he swipes at it, the can bouncing a few yards away. Good riddance.

He looks around the camp. His hunger still gnaws deep inside him, worse now that he’s emptied his stomach, but there’s nothing left here that’s edible. The obvious solution for his hunger is to hunt just as he’s always done, and he takes his leave.

It’s a surprise how open everything is compared to the closed walls he had grown up with, how small he feels when there’s nothing but stars on his back. It’s easy to find his way back to his old home and easier still to catch his first meal. It doesn’t even shout out when he snaps its neck with his maw, doesn’t expect him and doesn’t struggle.

Rat makes the decision to drag it back to his new burrow. His old one, which had been in the sewers under Junkertown, had been damp and he had to compete with the vicious little rats. His new borrow is dry and no little rats would try to steal bites from his food.

When he drags his food back to his new borrow, he’s surprised to see that the poisonous not-human is still right where he’d left it. Surely if it were playing dead it would have left when Rat had, so why is it still here if its still alive? He bristles and hisses at it in warning before he quickly drags his meal past to the bunker door. When he settles, he starts to tensely eat all while keeping watch. The not-human doesn’t move in all the time Rat eats and he slowly starts lose interest in it.

The food doesn’t go to waste as he eats every bit, even going so far to crack the bones and suck out the marrow. When he’s finished, all that’s left is broken bones with deep gouges from his gnawing and bloody torn fabric from the clothes the food had been wearing. It’s not enough though, it’s never enough.

By the end of the night, he ends up returning to Junkertown four more times until he’s so full that his belly is tender to the touch. Each human gets the same treatment as the first sans the last one, too full to eat her entirely, and he leaves the remains near the entrance of his borrow. Rat feels surprisingly content. The campfire still burns weakly and it’s mesmerizing to watch, the flames lulling him to sleep.

* * *

 

Roadhog jolts awake with a shout, ready for a fight, ready to see that _thing_ with its snapping jaws.

“Hoggy! You finally woke up! I knew ya wouldn’t cark it. Yer too strong for that, aren’t ya? Do you usually wake up screaming ‘cause ya ‘bout near gave me a heart attack.”

Roadhog’s pulse races as he pats himself down, trying to assure himself that he’s in one piece. He’s covered in sweat and he’s starving, but he’s _alive_. There’s no beast. It’s not night time. They’re not outside at the bunker but instead in his barn. He even feels around and touches the tube connected to his filtration. Everything is in order as if he’d just been sleeping. Had it all been some kind of nightmare? Hog looks down at his arm and feels icy dread clutch his heart.

There’s an ugly circular scar in the shape of teeth marks.

Slowly, his hands press against the sides of his head. So… It all happened then? The scuffle, the blood everywhere, him blacking out, that creature… How had they even made it back here? His head is throbbing and everything feels off. As he makes to stand, a wave of pain washes over him and makes him groan. It feels as though he had gotten the flu and was only just starting to feel a little better.

Junkrat gets up and tosses his dingy quilt on a nearby chair, still grinning widely.

“Ya didn’t wake up fer… what? Two, three days? Yeah! Gotta be ‘bout three days. Kept sayin’ weird shit like them folks that die out in the desert without any water. I thought ‘bout taking it out of yer pay, but as a good boss I decided not to. Guess they poisoned you pretty bad but I took care of ya! ‘Course I did, I--”

“What happened?” Hog interrupts.

Poisoned? That didn’t make sense; it had only been Hog and the beast out in the desert. He rubs the scar in his arm thinking of that thing’s maw wide open going for his throat--

“We got jumped! I saw it. Well. The aftermath! Guess they thought you were guarding me treasure or something as valuable. I dunno how many there were. Must have been at least three or four of ‘em? Bodies, anyway. And I know you were poisoned ‘cause you were burning up a fever something fierce.”

Junkrat pauses for a breath and looks at Roadhog, likely sensing how little Hog believes his story. He quickly continues.

“That and I seen one of the bodies! Sheila worked fer what’s her name… Taipan? Ya know, runs that shady assassin fer hire guild out behind the pub! Not that I would know anything ‘bout a shady group like that, but I bet ya me right leg they done it.”

Junkrat grabs a pitch of water and pours Hog a cup, smiling and going on about how he made the right choice with Roadhog as his bodyguard. It’s a lot to take in and hard to believe. Roadhog tunes him out as he pushes his mask halfway up to drink. It’s lukewarm as always but it helps soothe his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the cart they’d taken to the bunker up against the wall. Come to think of it, that’s probably how Junkrat had managed to get his dead weight all the way from the bunker back here.

Three days passed out. What sort of poison does that? It doesn’t make any sense; any poison used in the Outback was to kill. Not incapacitate. Unless they misjudged how much it would take to kill a man of his size. If Junkrat is telling the truth, it could explain what happened out there. Maybe he hadn’t been attacked by a monster but instead he’d been hallucinating from poison. After all, what’s more likely? The idea he had just been badly poisoned or that Junkrat is a _fucking werewolf_?

When he’s finished drinking, he tugs his mask back down.

“What about the ...animal?” Hog asks.

“What animal?” Junkrat’s doing it again. Smiling too big.

Hog can’t really explain what it looked like; it had been dark and his memories are fuzzy but he has a scar to prove that there had been _something_ at the bunker with them that wasn’t just some would-be assassins. He rubs his temples, his eyes sliding shut. His head is still pounding.

“The huge thing that got out. It was bigger than I was. Looked like a dingo and a rat fucked too hard.”

With his eyes still shut, he misses the look of utter insult from Junkrat.

“What do you mean? C’mon, tell me more about how he looked like!” Junkrat cuts in, moving closer to Hog.

Roadhog’s eyes turn to slits behind his mask. He growls and leans closer, making Junkrat lean back.

_”He?”_

Junkrat stiffens, then titters. “Well yeah, he! What else would it be? Wait. You reckon it was a sheila dingo? Don’t girl animals get bigger or something like that?”

Sweat beads at Junkrat’s forehead and he fidgets, smiling too wide. Rat is a shit liar. Usually he fucks up and just blurts everything out, unable to keep himself from talking about whatever is on his mind. Whatever he’s hiding, he isn’t saying this time and it’s testing Roadhog’s already bare-thread patience.

“Who knows. It was ugly. Probably had mange.”

He remembers a shape, an outline against the moonlight. A long tail, pieces of fur missing. Was it mangy skin? Hog sighs and rubs his temples again. His arm stings, aching in a way that makes him scratch at it idly. He grunts as he stands and Rat’s eyes follow his movements.

“Feeling better then? Knew you would! I was taking care of you. I dunno why I didn’t become a doctor. Kept you safe and comfortable I did, ‘cause you’d be useless to me if you carked it!”

Junkrat barks out a loud nasally laugh that is quietly cut off with a _hrrk!_ as Roadhog grabs his throat, squeezing it. His head is killing him and he just isn’t in the mood for Junkrat’s shrill voice. Especially not when there’s still so much doubt about his claims about assassins and poison.

Days pass as Roadhog continues to recover.

Despite how the _logical_ part of Roadhog’s brain tells him that Junkrat had been likely telling the truth about the nature of what happened, he can’t shake what he remembers. He begins to keep his distance from Junkrat, avoiding him at every chance. Roadhog even changes his own daily ritual of watching the sunset. It’s pathetic to see Junkrat come to the porch to join him only to watch him look around confused when Hog doesn’t come out.

The more Roadhog drives a wedge between them, the harder Junkrat vies for his attention. He just doesn’t take a hint. Instead of giving Hog his space, he is almost suffocating with how touchy and chatty he becomes. Hog would say it’s almost desperate but he’s positive that Junkrat is just that oblivious that he doesn’t realize what he’s doing.

The more Junkrat pushes the harder Roadhog pushes back.

The first time he shoves Junkrat physically away it’s after he looped his arm around Hog’s, around the arm that had the bite scar. Junkrat hit the ground and hopped back up instantly, patting dirt off the seat of his pants while laughing. After that, whenever Junkrat comes too close to his personal bubble, Roadhog knocks him back hard. Not as jokes as Junkrat seems to treat it like, but as an actual barrier between them.

He hates it. Roadhog hates how some part of him flinches in fear when Junkrat touches him or leans in too close. Fear to anger and anger to violence. Junkrat bounces back from it all with a toothy smile, even when Hog’s massive hand grips his neck hard and wrings him about. He’ll hack and cough and get up from the floor, laughing as he brushes it off.

Hog has to wonder if it’s a side effect of growing up in the apocalypse that would lead to someone being so disgustingly oblivious, but he knows that can’t be it. Junkrat would fight back if someone got physically violent towards him, or rather would have Roadhog fight in his place as part of his bodyguard duties. Why won’t Junkrat leave _him_ alone?

The fear of that monster in the back of his mind bleeds into how Hog handles his boss. He knows it isn’t fair to Junkrat to push him away so hard over hazy memories that may or may not have been a side effect of drugs. Roadhog _knows_ it but he can’t quell his nerves whenever Rat is around, and it makes working for the twerp difficult. He’d stuck his neck out for Junkrat, and he’s starting to really wonder if it was worth it considering how unsettled he is around Junkrat now. It’s the uncertainty that’s the worst part.

About two weeks after the ambush, Roadhog resolves to see if there is anything left near the bunker to corroborate Junkrat’s story. They can’t go on like this. He has to know. He still remembers the anxious, lying posture the reedy trash man had when explaining what happened.

He stops by Junkrat’s little house before he leaves with the full intention of making sure that Junkrat knows he’ll be busy today. Hopefully it will keep Junkrat from trying to search for him and, undoubtedly, find trouble instead. Roadhog is careful when he opens the door, wary of traps his boss may have set. He can’t complain; it makes his job easier when his employer can guard himself.

Roadhog’s surprised to see Junkrat asleep, at least if his snoring is any indication. He’s sprawled out on the couch surrounded by used styrofoam cups, a stained quilt covering his head. His boot and prosthetics are on the floor next to him and his bandaged foot sticks out from under his blanket, indicating this is one of those times Junkrat prepared for bed rather than just passed out where he sat.

Roadhog considers waking him up for a moment to let him know he’s leaving before he decides against it. It would be more trouble than it’d be worth. Besides, Junkrat had this place rigged with traps. He’d be fine for a couple hours and hopefully Hog would be back before he even woke up.

As Roadhog begins his journey to the bunker, he grabs an old flashlight and he mentally repeats the events of that night leading up to his blackout.

They had made their way to the bunker as they had for the past several months albeit a bit earlier than usual. Roadhog had brought a cart with him full of metal and other building materials to reinforce the storm doors while Junkrat had brought a bag of his own along. He’d fixed the doors, saw Junkrat off as dusk fell, and then...

And then?

He idly scratches at the scar on his arm. What Roadhog remembers is that he was attacked when he opened the door. Assuming Junkrat had been telling the truth, there had to have been some time between Junkrat going down into the bunker and Roadhog opening that door that he simply can’t remember. He would have seen if someone tried to sneak up on him, right? The surrounding desert is vast with very little places to hide and, with the light of the full moon, it’s easy to see for miles around. Hog should have seen these supposed assassins.

His pace slows down to a halt when he arrives at the bunker.

There’s signs of people having been here even now after two weeks. Junkrat did a terrible job of cleaning up their tracks, no doubt in a hurry to get him back to the barn.

Hog’s camp is still set up though some of his supplies are missing. His bedroll is torn to shreds, cotton littering the ground. The firepit is unperturbed and the earth blackened where it had been burning. All around the camp are little bits of metal and an assortment of different prints and scuff marks in the dirt. A few shoe prints that might have been his, a couple of different animal prints, drag marks with a brownish residue leading down into the bunker…

There’s a faint odor. Roadhog’s mask obscures most scents unless they are particularly pungent, so he knows it must reek. It smells of rot and decay.

He takes out the flashlight and enters the bunker, walking down the stairs slowly. The rusted metal steps groan under his weight, but they’re built into the earth so Hog isn’t concerned that they’ll break underneath him. Besides, he has more pressing things to worry about. The storm shelter is fairly small, only one room, and could probably fit a family of four comfortably. Thus, just one glance around with his flashlight is all Roadhog needs to see the carnage inside.

There are several carcasses strewn about in on the floor, all mutilated and decomposed beyond recognition. After two weeks of exposure to heat and wild animals, there isn’t much left of them apart from bones and blood stains. Near the bottom of the stairs however is one body that is obviously human in origin. The body is bloated and discolored gray and black. Its upper torso is all that’s left, everything under the exposed rib cage completely missing. There are maggots swarming inside the body’s empty cavity and the soft tissues where skin was torn apart. The face is missing its eyes, jaw, and tongue. Flies and other insects swarm the entire room and the stench of death overwhelming even with his mask.

Roadhog nearly throws up.

Opening the doors. The huge beast with the gaping, slobbering maw. Teeth that sunk into his arm as easily as a hot knife through butter. The way his body had felt wrong and incorrect after the bite. He steps back from the putrefaction, and the flies, and the smell still trying to force it’s way into his mask. His heart beats hard and fast in his chest and he recognizes the fear running through his body as the same one he felt when he was desperately trying to get another can of hogdrogen.

It feels like he’s being squeezed out of his body as his feet mechanically take him away from the room and up the stairs as he tries to calm himself down by digging his blunt nails into his palm. He remembers. He remembers it was missing the right arm and leg. He remembers that thing had been Junkrat. He remembers a long snout; big ears; patches of blonde fur missing; a long, naked tail that had slapped the earth as it snarled and showed the largest incisors anything had any right to have and the sharp, canine teeth along the rest of the gums; the wicked claws on the lone hand and foot.

Roadhog sits down at the top of the bunker, breathing hard and feeling cold sweat on his brow. It had been able to push him down and incapacitate him in a matter of seconds. It had eaten people, humans. Through the cold fear running in his veins, a question stands out.

Why hadn’t that thing eaten him?

He takes a hit of hogdrogen and stands up, feeling himself calm down and beginning to look at things critically. The thing had attacked him, but not eaten him. He feels a new jolt of panic and looks at the only scar on his arm where teeth had sunk in. Was he going to fucking turn into that? Wasn’t that how it worked in movies, in books, in legends? He sits back down and he almost feels lightheaded. Was he infected? He groans and passes a hand through the top of his head.

Junkrat as that thing was a danger. But it was clearly rat like and had been shy and kept to shadows. What about him? He was aggressive on his worst days and killed people for something as simply as a joke. Would he turn into some violent killing machine then? (An ugly little voice at the back of his head whispers _good._ Junkertown deserves it.)

He needs to clean all of this up. He’ll have a proper meltdown back at the barn after he’s made sure none of this can be traced back to them. If someone figures out he has the cryptid everyone’s wary of, size will amount to jack shit against numbers and ammunition.

First, he cleans out the bunker from the bodies. They’re rotting unnaturally fast and some even fall to pieces as easily as steamed dumplings. He finds a shovel in his supplies and digs up a hole, setting the bodies inside and burning them. While they do so, he picks up camp, resolving to divide it between reusable, salvageable, and just a lost cause. The skid and drag marks are hidden off and he closes the bunker doors with lock and chain.

By the time sundown is coming, he’s already buried the charred evidence under the Australian sand, and heads back home. A quick peek shows that Junkrat is asleep, though it’s obvious he was up and about for a while.

As night comes and he lays in bed, he touches the scar on his arm. The skin is numb to touch, though he still feels pressure. What if he did become one of those things..? He lays back down and falls to restless sleep.

* * *

 

Junkrat can tell he did something. He’s not sure what, but because of it, Roadhog isn’t letting him near him anymore. Before he’d push his luck just a little each day and touch the large man just a bit more. A sudden bump here, a rub there, leaning on him, even that weird watching the sunset thing! He’d liked that. He was a creature of habit and to suddenly not have what he had become accustomed to was jarring and pissing him off.

He paces around his home, thinking to himself. It’s not possible he knows he’s mister cryptid of the desert (haha), because he hasn’t mentioned anything and he took the whole we got jumped bullshit into stride. Didn’t he? Yes he did. He knows Hoggy. They’ve been a team for what? A year? Or no wait. Has it been a few weeks? Ugh, he is _not_ good with time. Either way, it’s been a long time, so he can tell when Hoggy knows he’s lying. He gets that weird stiffness on his shoulders. He grumbles and heads to the sofa, laying on it and pulling the quilt Hog had given him over his head. He stays quiet for a bit, mind a mess as he tries to think what he did to make Roadhog angry at him.

It wouldn’t have mattered much but lately he’d been feeling this weird sensation in his stomach when they were together in those sunset moments. Like he was hungry. But it wasn’t hunger. It felt funny. But he liked the sensation and he wanted it again dammit. He sits up and starts to pace again, quilt forgotten. Maybe he’d pushed too much? He knew he was clingy and touchy feely. He was starved for it. And he’d found someone who liked to destroy things as much as he did and also stick it to the Queen (fuck her).

His hand goes up to his mouth and he starts to pick at the cuticle with his mouth, pulling until he feels the sharp sting of the skin tearing open. It makes him giggle, but it’s anxious as his finger starts to bleed and he keeps at it, sufficiently appeased for the moment. It also lets him think better. If he was honest, he liked the aggression. So he also wanted to keep that. And the quiet moments too. And his hand on his neck… He wants everything. He’s greedy. He wants the bad and the good and the ugly and he wants Roadhog to pay attention to him again. But he’s scaredworried if he goes and pushes too much, he’ll definitely kick him out.

He likes his home and Roadhog’s home. He likes being able to come back to the one place every day. He’s not going to let go without a fight. What should he do? He looks at his hands. The fingers are bloodied and the cuticles are raw, making him giggle when he blows and it stings again. But he’s already formulated a plan to get back into his partner’s good graces! He stole a damn chair for him, he’ll build him something! Or no wait, he’ll wait for him to go and then he’ll make some repairs all over the barn! And hell get him some take out too. Yeah that’ll work. He writes the steps on his board and nods once he’s content, grabbing his gear and running off.

Got to get some scrap and then make sure he sees Hog leave. He’ll talk to that guy what’s his name. Robert? Stuart? Manfred? He’ll trade him for some more hogdrogen cans too. Yeah this plan’s _foolproof_.

It’s not hard to sneak off, not with Roadhog actively not paying attention to him (the word ignoring and avoiding cross his mind and makes his stomach hurt and roil). His first stop is the scrapyard. He stays there the whole afternoon, calloused hands pulling things apart to find the best scrap. He even finds bits and pieces for the projects he’s been considering for his night time activities and heads back before the sun is setting. He stops, thinking he’ll see Roadhog on the porch but he’s not there.

It hurts for some reason.

He huffs and heads to the shack setting a pot of coffee ready. He’s got little time and he can’t waste any of it. He’s aware Roadhog is a light sleeper but it doesn’t stop him from sneaking in and finding things to fix. It’s difficult with little to no light and trying to be silent (which is just unnatural to him) but he’s a man on a mission and he’s going to do this dammit.

The next day, he actually catches Hog heading out on his, hehe, hog and he immediately runs into the barn. The bed he’s noticed is uneven and he has some blocks to fix that. He has to get rid of the leg entirely but it leaves it firm and unmoving so that’s a win. The hogdrogen machine he uses has a stutter when he tries to pull and he fixes that up as well. The TV’s screen is cracked and not something that can be replaced but he can get the signal from the dish to come in better with a few additions.

His heart almost jumps out of his throat when he hears the bike and he hurries back to his home, gathering scrap and heading to Junkertown. The man’s name is Bruce, which he’ll forget but whatever, and he trades him for the cans Hog needs. He even gets some tokens and manages to buy some takeout, running off in a hurry. It’s almost night time and he wants to go in with everything. He even made himself a little list so he could remember all the tweaks and improvements he did.

Once he has everything fresh in his mind, the cans, and the takeout, he makes his way to Hog’s barn and stops in front of the doors. This isn’t an apology. He doesn’t even know what he did wrong! It’s a show of appreciation. Yeah. A thank you gift. Definitely. Not an apology for what he definitely didn’t do. Whatever that was. Because he didn’t do it. Roadhog is just being a bastard. He takes a deep breath and, for once, knocks. Then he lets himself in because he has no patience honestly.

“Good afternoon, Hoggie!” He says cheerily, hands full of bags and a big smile on his face because no one can resist his charms. He even had wooed the Queen once but she told him if he ever said anything about it shed personally tear his cock and balls with her bare hands from his crotch. Not something he could easily forget (much less when his mind immediately decided to show it in full HD in his mind’s eye.) “I see you’ve been missing me lately!”

Not ignoring. Not avoiding. Roadhog is silent as he sees him come in and set everything on the table, book in hand. “I figure it was time to show me appreciation to all your hard work and we being fine gentlemen I found the perfect way to do so!” He opens the bag, licking his lips at the takeaway. Hog, in bed with a book, stays silent and unmoving. His hand idly scratches at a scar on it that he won’t say where he got it from.

“So I went ahead and made some improvements on yer home, as you can tell, but if you can’t I’m happy to point them out.” His chest puffs out and he smiles. “I leveled out yer bed, know that you didn’t like it wiggling. Noticed yer hogdrogen machine had this little stutter when you pressed down so I smoothed that one out. Also made sure the barn door opens nice and smooth without a hitch!” He smiles though he feels it more as a pull of his cheeks as Hog keeps silently staring. He clears his throat and makes a show towards the cans and the take away. “And you wouldn’t believe I was _casually_ walking around Junkertown and Brian had some hogdrogen cans on him. And I figured, since I was already there I would be magnanimous and get some take away for us both!”

Again he smiles, and again there’s nothing but silence. His smile falls and he feels the anger rise up his throat. “Well? Aren’t you going to say something? I know your silence, and this ain’t like the one you usually go on about where I know you’re telling me something either way.” He stomps over and his teeth grit, hands balling to fists. “Out with it!” He feels hot and angry, feels like he wants to fucking punch him. Roadhog sets the book down, seeming to get ready for bed and Junkrat’s minimal patience snaps.

He yells and throws himself at Roadhog without caring if his prosthetics will hurt him or not as he starts punching and pulling and biting and scratching. Hog yells as well and they end up tumbling out of bed as they tousle. Junkrat yelps when Roadhog gains the upper hand and holds him by the neck. He wheezes but kicks and snarls angrily. Ha! He's being paid attention to. He whines when the fist squeezes harder. And then he panics when he notices Roadhog doesn’t stop. He can’t breathe. The lens of his mask stare on emotionless and blank. He tries to dig his metal fingers and blunt nails into his hand, tries to kick at his gut and shoulders, anything to have the bigger man let go.

His body starts to relax, even as his eyes roll up, blood vessels popping and there’s a sound in his neck, some groaning, cracking noise, like gnashing your teeth together.

“Roadie…” He says softly. His eyes start to close, drooling as he opens his mouth wide in a failed attempt at inhaling. This is it. He’s going to die.

He falls to the floor, gasping and wheezing, taking in deep greedy lungfuls of air as he grabs his neck. When he feels that massive hand on him he freezes up and starts trying to fight him again. It holds his neck but this time, there’s no pressure. It’s just holding his neck. His shoulders are tense but he doesn’t move as he’s set on his feet. Roadhog sits down with a sigh, scratching that scar on his arm again. Slowly he starts to divide the take away, 50/50, and Junkrat slowly sits down.

His neck is still sore, but they eat in relative peace and silence.

* * *

 

He could have killed Junkrat. One simple move with his pointer finger and he’d have snapped his skinny neck. The treasure would have been lost forever, sure, but the threat of what Junkrat was, of what maybe _he_ would become, would be gone. A well placed bullet through his own skull and whatever they were would be wiped. It was why he’d been harshly pushing Junkrat away. He knew how this fucking worked. One bite or scratch and you changed. It was how it went in books and movies. Every time he’d been hurt the hogdrogen had smoothly healed and closed off any injuries he’d acquired. But the bite had scarred, and worse, it itched.

Instead, he’d let go and they’d just. Shrugged the event off like the past few weeks hadn’t happened. Junkrat had stayed close to him before but now he stuck to him like a particularly resilient piece of gum. The only time he left was when they went to sleep, but he was obviously pleased when they went back to quietly looking at the sunset while they drank lukewarm beer. Or when they went together to cause trouble in Junkertown. Or when they went off into the desert to raid anyone stupid enough to not have a fortified place so they could get more supplies for some project Junkrat was working on.

Roadhog had a project of his own. If they were both going to be some sort of weird, mutated monstrosity, then he’d be ready. Junkrat knew what he was but had been trying to keep himself locked down. As much as he hated to admit it, he had no one to blame for the bite but himself and his stupid curiosity. He can try and say Junkrat didn’t prewarn him or something but Junkrat had been emphatic on ‘ _Don’t open the doors until after sunrise_.’

In a way it’s a weird sort of relief. Still terror inducing, but now he could properly plan a month knowing when the full moon would come and _what_ would be coming with it. Even if he’s still scared of what will happen to him. He trades as needed to keep Junkrat well fed and trades for a few extra things. Some thick chains that even he has a problem carrying, a new bed roll as the other one was torn apart, a proper tent, and the last is something he keeps hidden away.

Junkrat is as voracious as ever in his appetite and beams when he’s given his bigger portion, looking at him with odd eyes as he sits and eats. His own portion is… slightly bigger than usual and he feels dread in his belly as the full moon approaches and his hunger rises. Their combined hunger is dwindling their trading supplies unnaturally fast but he doesn’t tell Junkrat. The junker honestly thinks they got jumped, not that he opened the doors and got bit. So he keeps it quiet.

When they head to the bunker, he’s got his supplies and Junkrat has his. He thinks he knows what’s inside. At one point, Junkrat had run off and come back scuffed and beaten up but in bright spirits. Meat probably. Was it human?

They arrive and he starts making camp. “Ain’t this nice?” Junkrat starts prattling. “You and me, Junkrat and Roadhog, junker and ex-enforcer, compadres, amigos, comrades-!” He keeps adding other adjectives and by then he’s tuned him out as he sets up the tent, his bedroll, hides away one bag in particular with the chains and the _extra_ he acquired.

“Together! Stronger than any force of nature!” He proclaims triumphant, skinny chest puffed out as his leg pops off, fingers digging into the stump to calm the reddened skin and raw nerves. “I tell ya, mate, maybe we could one day get to the big suit cities, raid them for all they got and come back rich men! We could buy anything we want. We could buy Junkertown!” he says excitedly, doing the same with his arm and tittering.

The limbs are handed to him when the sun begins to set and he waves a happy goodbye, beaming as he does so. Like clockwork the latch closes, now reinforced.

While Junkrat had begun to settle into the comfort of routine, Roadhog had begun to properly study and analyze what he had written down. The rumor mill was abuzz with the disappearance of five junkers (who’s bones lay waiting for The Rat in the bunker, after he’d come over on his hog to peel away the rotting flesh. A fed animal was a calm animal.) in one night and the implications that the thing that lurked in the shadows was pissed seemed to be the general consensus. Some, mind’s lost to radiation, suggested making offerings to appease it. The Queen set up a night shift to keep an eye out. As if any of those things would help them or keep them safe.

Maybe it would. Maybe it wouldn’t. Whatever was the case Roadhog turns and heads to his bed roll. He sits down with fear in his throat and an itch to the scar where the Rat had bitten him. In his hand, the clock ticks, the fire crackles, the bugs are silent, and the moon rises. And Roadhog?

Roadhog waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Christmas miracle! I won't make promises but I'll try to update more. Comments are greatly appreciated
> 
> If you'd like, [consider buying me a Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/C0C8A1O6)  
> You can follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fencetastic_) since tumblr keeled over...

**Author's Note:**

> I'll make an attempt at updating every two weeks? It was about time someone made wererat fic. Done in collaboration with my friend and beta, Hoodoo  
> If you'd like, consider [buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/C0C8A1O6)  
> You can follow me on [tumblr!](https://cannidaebby.tumblr.com/)


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